


Bring Him Back

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [14]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Gen, Sick Fic, Temper Tantrums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 1637, Blois. The truth about Athos health was in the open and Porthos had to find a way to recover his friend's health and to make Raoul happy at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring Him Back

_There is one consolation in being sick;_ __  
_and that is the possibility that you may recover_  
_to a better state than you were ever in before._  
_~Henry David Thoreau_

Porthos was not made to wait.

He knew he couldn't put his eyes for a long time on that damned paneled door that Grimaud slammed unceremoniously in his face once the physician entered Athos' room.

The waiting could be more endurable if he could hear Athos' voice or the physician's voice, but he can only hear the distant clanking of horrible medical instruments and the flapping of the bed linen. It didn't come to his mind that his heavy footsteps in the floorboard might be drowning most of the sounds. For a moment Porthos believed to hear a sharp cry from the other side, but it was brief and he was not sure his ears were no playing tricks on him.

He resumed his pacing, just in time for seeing the young apprentice of the physician run out with the room with a washbasin filled with bloody water and bloody rags. Two strides were enough to be at the threshold, pushing the door to find a way inside, but Grimaud's stern face and the physician's voice made him stay behind closed doors, with the disturbing feeling he was letting a friend behind enemy lines.

It was hard, but Porthos had to resign himself to wait.

...

The door opened with a little crack, Porthos stirred in Athos' chair, where he found a spot to wait and from which Mousqueton couldn't make him move; at the weak light of the wee hours of the morning the physician looked sinister and Grimaud behind him, with gaunt expression, didn't make him entertain high hopes.

"… The shoulder and the bruises are not the worst I have seen, but _M. le comte_ must drink the remedy or he's bound to never recover."

"Dry cup," Grimaud recapped, with his marvelous capacity to sum up even the most complex situation.

"And rest, _M. le Comte_ need to rest, _Maître_ Grimaud," the physician almost hissed at the end of the sentence. "That fever is most dangerous in his condition…"

"Bed bellow stairs," Grimaud just nodded at the indications as he herded he physician out of Athos' studio, "I'll see _M. le Comte_ rest this night."

Athos was trying to set himself in his rumpled bed, the sheet slid over his hip and Porthos got a good view of the mean bruise in his friend's thigh, the small cuts in his side, the discoloration of his shoulder among the dressing that bound his right arm to his chest. Porthos stared at his struggles and felt a void in his gut as impotence began to set, the sudden realization that there was no way he could help his friend was a novel and distressing experience. Luckily, he had no time to wallow in that gut wrenching feeling, an annoyed grunt behind him let him know that help was on their way.

Grimaud took good care of preserving his master's modesty before placing one knee on the mattress and his arms around the hurting man and hoist him to the pillows with one single pull. Porthos wondered how many times before that scrawny alley cat had to settle Athos on his bed to make the whole operation seems so effortless. There was a slight grimace in Athos' face when his weight was finally put on the pillows.

"Hmm," Grimaud grunted before he turned his attention to sheet and comforter.

That sound made the patient react even if slightly, Athos' eyelids fluttered and he turned his head around, like he used to do when he was far too drunk.

"Porthos…" Athos murmured when his eyes fell on him, "You can approach; I won't stain your clothes again. Promise. I'm clean inside out…"

"That's not a trouble at all," Porthos feigned a smile and rest his weight against the mattress, "Mousqueton need something to idle his time away. How are you feeling?"

"Ready to continue the scuffle where Raoul interrupted us…"

Porthos' eyes followed Grimaud as the servant dipped a rag in cold water, waiting for an explanation.

"Valerian," Grimaud mouthed and busied himself in dabbing on his master's brow.

At least that made some sense: The physician gave Athos something and he was not master of his mind at the moment; Porthos was aware he must adjust his reactions accordingly.

"Maybe later, when there is enough light for it."

"Agreed," Athos tried to swat away Grimaud's weary figure from his line of sight.

Grimaud, with harrowing expression, followed through the task at hand and slipped a hand behind his master's nape while approaching a metal tumbler to Athos' lips.

"I won't drink that awful brew!" Athos protested and tried to turn his head, closing his eyes.

"What's that concoction?"

"Milk thistle," Grimaud grumbled and made another attempt to make his master drink, with equal lack of success.

"Let it go, Grimaud," Porthos took the tumbler from the servant's hand. "He will drink it when he gets thirsty."

With a grumble, Grimaud retired from bed and went to tidy up the place after the visit of the physician. If Athos hadn't imposed his will upon him so fiercely, Porthos was sure the servant would be grumbling his opposing view in the matter.

"Porthos…"

"Tell me," Porthos approached to Athos, because his friend's voice sounded weak.

"Don't you ever," Athos' left hand hooked on Porthos' shirt with the strength of desperation. "Hear me well, don't you ever let Raoul in!"

"Athos!"

"Swear it!"

"On my word!" Porthos said, mostly because Athos inspired on him a sort of wary respect when he glanced that way.

Athos let Porthos' shirt go and sunk in his sweat-drenched pillows; to threat a friend was an exhausting business, every musketeer knows that. Porthos sat on the bed and listened how his friend mumble a little to himself before falling asleep, it brought bittersweet memories of younger days and let his mind drift away from how to deal with Raoul, now the kid had been vetoed from this little room.

...

The first days there was not a lot of fuss over the "absence" of the master of the house; apparently, Grimaud had the entire house staff warned —and watched from his master's bedchamber— and the service had the same punctuality to serve meals and the same high standard to do the beds and to care for the needs of the guest; even Raoul made the attempt of act like a host, but he got bored and soon the kid reduced himself to hang by the window that overlooks the gate, waiting for the Count.

Like Raoul, Porthos only wanted his friend's company to be completely at ease.

That last element was hard to get, even when they share the same roof; for a room where silence was sought, there were a whole lot of visits at the most inconvenient hours. Porthos could only sneak into Athos' room either very early in the morning or real late in the night, which is not the best time to try to cheer a man who is either shivering with fever or trying to recover from a demanding day.

Porthos mostly get his notifications on Athos' health by the fleeting presence of Grimaud, who ran up and down the stairs with bundles of bed linen or trays with liquids, his harrowed face could be mistakenly thought to be provoked by labors, but Porthos only needed a glance to be sure: The situation was not improving.

...

On fifth day morning, at the time of his usual visit, Porthos was greeted by a couple of baleful blue eyes. Athos fought fever and, apparently, won, yet that didn't meant his friend was welcomed into his bedchamber. Mousqueton, always obliging when gossip was an issue, had informed Porthos about how no other servant than Grimaud has permission to step into the studio, let alone the bedchamber. And, Porthos sincerely understood the train of thought of his friend, but that did not mean that the rules might be extended to his person, especially as a guest.

Those eyes begged to differ, nevertheless Porthos refused to be bullied.

"I can see you have returned to your senses," Porthos said by way of greeting.

"Faith! I feel better now, that's true," Athos said from his usual place on de pillows, and even if his voice was hoarse, the words were polite, but it was obvious they were chosen because they disregard Athos' actual state and show at the same time that the greeting was not earned Porthos any gratitude.

"Then, my dear host," Porthos dragged one chair by the side of the bed, "command a little breakfast to your mute and let us share just like we did years ago."

Grimaud let them both alone as soon as the faintest signal from Athos' head was issued.

"Now we are safe from prying ears, Athos, tell me, how this whole mess came to happen?"

"I lost grip of my reins," Athos gruffly admitted, resting his gaunt cheek against his bruised shoulder. His eyes had lost their intimidating quality, although they were still fierce.

"…and your stirrups and your saddle, _pardieu_!" Porthos exclaimed, "I know you. You are far too good rider to fell so brutishly off a horse simply because reins escaped your hand."

"That's not my meaning," Athos closed his eyes and pressed his ashen lips together. "Give me a sip of water, Porthos, I'm thirsty."

That's a good thing to do; in Porthos' book it meant that his presence was useful. He reached the side table with a couple of strides and he found a pitcher right away, but a cup was a little more difficult to find, and the only tumbler in sight was filled with cloudy water. The milk of something Grimaud was trying to make him drink.

"Why don't you try this, Athos?" Porthos offered him the metal tumbler filled with the remedy, "It's still warm…"

"And bitter like a witch's tit," was the immediate rebuke. Athos shook his head as a negative response; even though Porthos was quite sure Grimaud only offered his master the remedy to soothe his thirst. "Water will be enough."

Porthos shrugged since he knows how difficult it was to make Athos change his heart, and he had to fight only the most essential battles, for now. It took him to move some rags and dark bottles to find a cup and to fill it with cold water.

"Here. Have your fill," Porthos presented the cup and didn't let it go until Athos had it secure in his hand, and waited until he took the first sip before pointing to the metal tumbler and asking with feigned innocence: "What's that?"

"It is a horrid herb concoction that supposedly will help my aching body. Grimaud has blind faith on it and the physician too," Athos commented between small sips, "but I hate it, it makes me feel weak and it gives me the devils."

"The devils?" Porthos watched as Athos dried the cup

"Have you ever felt that intense shivering the morning after you had had too much wine?" Athos asked and extended his cup for another sip of water.

"I had had them," Porthos admitted and gave his friend another ration.

"Increase them tenfold and enhance them with a wicked megrim," Athos described before sipping the cold water greedily. "Those are the devils. You could do me a favor and toss it through the window, if it sits there too long the good doctor and Grimaud will find another way to get it into me. "

"But how…?" Porthos didn't finished uttering the question before the answer formed into his brain and made him blush. "Oooh..."

Athos made no comment; he was too busy trying to put the cup in good stead to get a gulp for his parched mouth.

Well, Porthos said to himself, it he could spare Athos that little indignity…

...

Porthos went downstairs once Grimaud's eyes became so insistently pressing that the message couldn't be ignored. It was better to spend some time with Raoul, because the boy might be too lonely, maybe Porthos could interest him in a good ride to lift their spirits, but the scene which greeted Porthos was the same of the previous days: Raoul approached a bench to the window and kept his eyes attached to the gate, waiting for a dark horse to canter through it with Athos on his back.

It's a shame it wasn't going to happen any time soon.

Next to the boy there was a dish with some pieces of bread, boiled eggs, and some slices of cheese. It was a light breakfast for Porthos but a pretty hearty one for Raoul.

"Good day, Raoul," Porthos greeted and sat by the boy in the ledger.

Raoul sulked and didn't reply the salute. Porthos was just out of his father's bedroom; the kid could sneer at him all the morning and still wouldn't make a chip in his armor.

"Are these any good?" Porthos asked, and extended his hand to grab one of Raoul's _echaudés_.

That really caught Raoul's attention; he got his eyes on Porthos as the bread was carried to that bearded face, before extending his hand to stop the adult from eating his sweet and rather hard breakfast.

"Men don't eat sweets."

"Of course men eat sweets. You only need a sweet and a mouth. Who told you that?"

" _Pa!_ And you can't have my sweets!" Raoul pouted and snatched the piece of sweet bread from that massive hand, "you have already taken a lot from me!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You took my _pa_ away!" Raoul spat in the heights of his temper tantrum, he even banged his legs against the bench. "Bring him back!"

"But, Raoul…" Porthos started but he couldn't continue.

"Bring _him_ _BACK_!"

For someone so small, Raoul had a surprise force in his little lungs. Porthos had to retreat in a hurry, because the child was asking for something Porthos wouldn't give him, not without giving him a lot of explanations that fall out of his competence.

...

That very night, Porthos found himself in his bed, unable to sleep because Raoul has some reason in his spat. If he wouldn't race Athos, his friend wouldn't ever fell down of his horse. Trying to reason with the child was of no use if Athos was being adamant about no visitors. So, the first step was obvious.

Still closing his dressing gown he crossed the corridor and found Athos' studio door in complete obscurity; he was used to the disposition of the house, and had wised up enough to know he should not knock at the door; if the physician was in he could always mutter an apology. And, in his defense, he couldn't expect the sight of Athos' room that night.

Part of his bewilderment was due to the whole sensation of déjà vu, because it was Rue Férou all over again: In the dim light of a solitary candle Porthos saw Grimaud, kneeling by the bed with his clothes smeared with blood —Athos' blood— while his master had his head on the servant shoulder with a rictus of agony in the face. The other part came from the fact that there should be no blood!

Porthos choose to let the memory guide him, instead of stand by the threshold. Good grief! He was a soldier once!

"Go for help, you fool!" He commanded and took his place, so Athos was well cared for in this servant's absence.

Grimaud run from the spot, not taking a moment to wipe the blood from his face, perhaps he was more concerned in drag the damned physician in. Porthos gave Athos his complete attention, his friend was mewling in pain, and his voice was barely passing his clenched teeth. Athos was holding the pain inside by the sheer force of his will.

"You can howl, Athos," Porthos murmured, trying to move him into the bed, but he lacked the poise and ease of Grimaud though he tried to be careful, "If it hurts so bad, maybe cry out would help."

Athos shook his head faintly; it was barely noticeable, but Porthos was well aware of when Athos' eyes squinted hard as a new wave of pain racked him. It took Porthos some moments to realize Athos' screams would rouse Raoul, and if big Porthos couldn't make a thing, the boy would be even more powerless and upset. Porthos understood and braced himself to withstand the eternal minutes ahead until help arrive.

...

More waiting, Porthos had to fight against the need to kick down that damn door.

The day was shining bright when the physician left Athos' bedchamber, and Porthos felt something similar to pity to him, for about three heartbeats.

"How's _M. le Comte_?"

A sad shake was his only answer before considering his job done and starting his way towards the exit. Porthos was having none of it.

"Tell me," Porthos insisted his massive hand on the frail shoulder of that mousey man.

Then, it was obvious why this little man was Athos' physician and not any other man who can wrestle him to health. The quality of this man death glare can rival with the most vicious one Athos could muster.

"I can't discuss my patient's health with anyone. I already did a great exception with _Maître_ Grimaud because I need his help!"

"Well, good man, let me help you!"

That threw the physician into disarray; Porthos assumed that the man had not a person ready to lend a hand in this kind of situations

"That man is my family. _Peste_ , let me help!"

"There is nothing you can do now;" the physician admitted reluctantly, "his body is mauled, that is, not counting the issues he had before. I did what was in my hand, now he's on God's hands."

"What troubles?" Porthos was too garrulous to be thunderstruck, "He never tell me about any trouble!"

It was obvious the physician was biting his tongue.

"His youth is catching up with him," the wording was careful. "God knows what was in his head to make him drink so much wine when I explained to him to exhaustion that it would do him no favors."

_Because I'm an old man, with old man aches._

Athos, cryptic as always, had told his friend his health was not good. All was there; just Porthos didn't give him the due attention, and that made Porthos feel pretty selfish.

_I lost grip of my reins._

Suddenly, the phrase made sense. Athos was not talking about horses, but about wine. Athos knew he was not supposed to drink, and he was being just polite chugging down whatever Porthos poured into his cup. Porthos knew the guilt was not his, Athos should tell Porthos that wine was not the best idea. The rage –and the sudden desire to flip Athos' nape with all his might— was being wasted at this time, when the physician was seeing him with compassion for his ignorance.

"Well, I'll add my prayers to yours…" Porthos said, walking with the physician to the studio's door.

"He'll do better if you can convince him to drink whatever we put in his cup," the physician simpered, almost as he was reading Porthos' mind, "It seems that _that's_ your forte."

Porthos suppressed the need to slap the smirk off of his face and instead, he swung the door open. "I'll see to it."

The physician took his chance to scape and almost ran through the hallway, making just a pause to acknowledge a presence with a little bow. Once the physician turned the corner, Porthos found himself in front of the dirtiest look of his collection: Little Raoul, in his nightgown, bared feet and arms akimbo, glared at Porthos. The kid was a complete image of righteous indignation.

"Raoul…"

The boy huffed and turned around to run away, he was surprisingly quick for someone of his size and Porthos, who was getting fed up with closed door, was left out the kid's private room.

"Raoul, let me in!"

"Can't!" Raoul shouted from inside, "I'm sleeping!"

"Then, how are you answering me?"

There was silence at the other side of the door. In spite of everything, Porthos found the situation hilarious.

"You lied to me!" Raoul finally said, his voice conveyed how disappointed and betrayed he felt.

"If you let me in, I'll explain."

The door cracked open, Raoul was standing there, a wary look in his eyes.

"He was here, and you didn't tell me. I know why." the boy cast down his eyes. " _Pa_ doesn't want to see me…"

Porthos shook his head and opened his arms; Raoul ran into them and buried his face in his shirt.

...

That day it was impossible to get into Athos' room, but as soon as the night fell Porthos found the door unguarded; a quick peek inside the room was enough to confirm that Athos was fast asleep on his pillows, his complexion had a yellowish color, so different of his regular pallor, but at least it seemed like he was a little better as a result of the cares of the Cerberus who had fallen asleep with his head in the mattress and his rear in a footrest, maybe he was lulled into sleep by the rain it started to fall at twilight.

Porthos had to admit he was impressed with Grimaud's stamina.

Trying not to rouse the servant, Porthos carried him outside of the room, and let Grimaud catch his rest in his master's chair, because there was something he wanted to try; in this case, the lest the merrier. Porthos took a moment to retrieve some implements from his room, some little things the helpful Mousqueton help him subtract from the pantry. The physician tried to be ironic, but Porthos took the challenge seriously.

Athos was half asleep, since he felt Porthos taking away Grimaud, but he got completely awake as soon as he noticed Porthos presence, he was always like that. His eyes were cloudy and of a strange color, but Porthos imputed it to the candle.

"Hello, my dear host," Porthos said, it was impossible for him to whisper in the dead of the night, "I'm here to keep you company."

Athos tried to protest; he opened his mouth but never get to utter a syllable. Porthos had a spoonful of honey ready and passed it thought his parted lips at the first chance. It was really simple to figure out the dilemma: Athos hated his remedy because it was bitter, well, a little honey surely would help it go down.

_Men don't eat sweets._

Porthos was aware that Athos had not a sweet tooth in his mouth or else he would not be teaching Raoul that kind of claptrap, yet he didn't expect the reaction he got. Athos bolted upright; trying to spit the honey for the spoon was a simpler task. There was little success. Nobody ever thought on spit honey, Porthos was sure, because most of the people actually like honey.

"Here, Athos, wash the taste away," Porthos offered him the metal tumbler with its contents of cloudy water.

The haste invested in draining the metal cup was surprising, Porthos saw him toss it off with all his former drinking enthusiasm. He wouldn't drink it better if it was wine.

"You are a brute, are you aware?" Athos growled, using his arm to dry his lips.

"There, there," Porthos muttered taking the tumbler of his hand before Athos could think of smashing it into his guest's head. "You had to forgive a friend a harmless prank."

"Only if you give me water; I still feel the damned sweetness in my mouth!"

Porthos glanced at the pitcher by the bed; in all certainty it would be full of well water.

"That numbskull of Grimaud didn't bring water," Porthos rose from the bed and picked up the pitcher, "I'll bring you some."

Athos give him a wary look, "You are unusually concise tonight, Porthos."

"Well, it _is_ the middle of the night," Porthos lied as he approached the door, "People are sleeping. The fact you are pouring your annoyance on me doesn't mean I'm not respecting the sleep of Grimaud's little boy or your round cook, or that old broad man that watches your horses…"

Athos groaned and turned in his bed, which only said that he preferred the brief Porthos.

Now, to the next part of the plan. Porthos left the pitcher on Athos desk and made a dash to Raoul's room, the boy was harder to awake than Athos, but easier to maneuver; Porthos carried him in his arms and tell him a story, Raoul drank it directly with that innocence only little kids had in this world. When they returned to Athos' bedroom they found him dozing. The remedy must have something to help him sleep. That didn't deter Raoul from crawling to the headboard and to found himself a place under Athos' arm.

"What…?" Athos cracked open his eyes. "Raoul?"

"Someone came to visit," Porthos explained while Raoul did his best to kiss Athos in the beard.

"You shouldn't be here…"

"I know." Raoul was making his best to get Athos' good arm around his shoulder. "Emir hurt _M. le Comte_ and he must rest!"

"And you must let the good doctor do his work."

"Yes, _M. le Comte_ ," Raoul agreed, pulling the sheet around them.

"And keep Porthos company," Athos tried to suppress a yawn.

"Yes, _M. le Comte_ ," Raoul concurred and nestled himself against the broad, bandaged chest.

Athos sighed; it took his time to realize the battle was lost. Porthos smiled to the both of them in the bed and decided to let them sleep together. He did his best to sneak out the room, but his huge mass let little leeway. Athos' eyes followed him to the door.

"Porthos," Athos called out before he could make his scape and Porthos waited for his grateful words, but the big Picard was somewhat disappointed when the words were: "I'll have your hide."

Porthos closed the door, resolving, out of spite, to pay Athos' physician handsomely. Let's see how that suits him!


End file.
